Chapter 7 - The Choice at the Pier
The glare of the van’s high beams cut through the gloom of the packing plant, casting long, monstrous shadows against the walls. Vance’s voice boomed through a tactical megaphone, bouncing off the rafters.
"Drop the weapon, Julian! The building is surrounded! You have three seconds!"
Julian spun toward the blinding light, cursing wildly, his grip on the little girl loosening for a single, critical fraction of a second.
It was all the opening I needed.
I didn't draw my gun. I threw my entire upper body forward, slamming my palms against the rubber wheels with a violent heave. The wheelchair lurched across the gritty concrete, surging forward across the open floor before Julian could reacquire his target.
"Get away!" Julian shrieked, swinging his pistol back toward me.
But as he swung, a small, muffled sob broke from the little girl. Instead of ducking away, she suddenly twisted her small body, sank her teeth deep into Julian’s forearm, and shoved her weight against his knee.
Julian yelled in pain, his balance buckling on the slick, moisture-covered concrete of the catwalk ramp. His pistol discharged into the corrugated roof, spraying a shower of sparks down into the dark, and then his legs went out from under him. He hit the iron grating hard, his gun skittering across the floor and tumbling over the edge into the dark water below.
I jammed my brakes hard, sliding to a halt at the base of the ramp.
The little girl stood alone on the platform, her oversized coat hanging off her thin shoulders, staring down at Julian as he groaned in pain, clutching his bleeding arm.
I didn't wait for Vance and the men to storm the catwalk. I reached down, unbuckled the heavy leather holster from my ribs, and tossed it aside onto the seat. Then, gripping the handrails of the ramp with both hands, I dragged myself upward out of the chair, planting my boots—dead weight though they were—onto the metal grating.
I hauled myself up step by step, my arms trembling with the strain of five years of atrophy, until I reached the top platform.
The girl looked up at me, her wide eyes blinking in the harsh light.
I knelt down, ignoring the burning ache in my shoulders, and pulled her small, freezing frame into my arms. She buried her face against my heavy wool coat, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric as if I were the only solid thing left in the world.
"You came," she whispered against my chest.
"I told you I would," I said, my voice thick.
Vance rushed up the ramp a second later with two of his men, panting heavily, his eyes widening as he saw me standing—or rather, leaning—unsupported on my own feet.
"Boss..." Vance started, staring at my legs.
May you like
"Get Julian out of here," I ordered, my voice dropping back into its cold, absolute authority. "Take him to the private basement on Beacon Hill. Not the police. Not yet. We have a conversation to finish with Marcus Thorne."
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